has no right to back her into a corner over this. No right at all.
Heather almost runs into her living room to complete her ritual: standing in the middle, arms outstretched, eyes closed. It’s only then that the anger at her sister starts to fade. But just as she is beginning to breathe properly again, there is a loud rap on the glass of her French doors. Her eyes snap open and her heart starts to gallop. And not just because Jason is standing there smiling softly at her from the other side of the glass.
What must he think she was doing, standing in the middle of her living room like a cross between a scarecrow and a zombie? She smiles weakly back.
He makes a motion to indicate she should open the door. Heather has to look for the key. While she likes looking at the neat, orderly garden, she doesn’t often go out there. Opening the door would let insects and grass clippings in. She’d be worried she’d missed something that blew under the sofa and it would sit there for days undetected, slowly contaminating.
Heart still pounding, she opens the door and steps outside, closing it behind her to keep not just the bugs and dandelion heads out, but Jason too. No one else has set foot in her flat (except nosy old Carlton) since she moved in three years ago.
Before that, she hadn’t lived in Bromley for a long time, but her mother’s declining health and a maternity-cover job had brought her back. She knew she was lucky to have found another post close enough to stay here. Her job was competitive and, at her age, permanent positions were scarce. Usually, she lived from contract to contract and had to go where the work took her.
‘Yes?’ she says to Jason, who’s still got the hint of a smile on his lips, and she knows her tone has added bite because of her lousy afternoon. Another thing that’s Faith’s fault.
‘Thought I’d mow the grass and give the borders a bit of a weed,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Now the weather’s turned nicer, I was also thinking about having a barbecue – you know, the housewarming I didn’t get round to organizing – just a few friends over to have some burgers and sausages.’
Heather nods. Oh, so that’s it. While it’s a shared garden and Jason is perfectly within his rights to mow, cook or even turn cartwheels in it, he’s being polite. He’s asking if she minds. ‘Go ahead,’ she says. ‘Although it’d be nice to know the date and time when you’ve arranged it.’ That way she can make sure she keeps to the bedroom and the kitchen that afternoon, then there’s no chance of her being mistaken for an undead scarecrow again or having people peering into her space like she’s an exhibit in the reptile house at London Zoo. She might even go out.
His smile gets wider. ‘Well, I thought maybe you’d like to join us? It seems rude not to ask, especially as we’ll be hanging out right in front of your living room.’
Heather checks his face for the usual telltale signs of a pity invite: the tightness around the edges of the mouth, the narrow pupils and fixed jaw (she’s thinking of Faith’s face as she does this), but finds none of them. However, she can’t believe he’s asking because he actually wants her there, so that leaves her standing in her garden, worrying whether aphids from the nearby roses are attaching themselves to her hair, and not knowing quite what to do.
‘Okay?’ he says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to offer invitations to strangers, bring them into your world, your stuff.
There’s no excuse she can give. Not yet, anyway. So she just nods and says, ‘Okay.’ And then she turns and goes back inside her flat without looking round. She desperately wants to, though. She wants to know if he’s still smiling or if his brows are drawn together in a deep frown of confusion.
Heather heads for her bedroom, but as she passes the spare room she pauses.
It’s in there. The photo. The thing Faith wants. She doesn’t know exactly where, but it’s in there somewhere. Probably. Heather stares at the blank door for a full minute, and then she thinks to herself, Not today. I’ve had as much as I can handle today. I’ll do it soon, though. Maybe tomorrow.
NOW
‘She’s in tears, Heather! Everyone else in her class has brought their family-history projects in already. The teacher has given her until Monday, but that’s absolutely her last chance! I am driving over to you Sunday afternoon and picking a bloody photo up. Have you got that?’
Somehow, looking for a photograph ‘tomorrow’ had turned into the day after that, and the day after that had turned into a week, and then that week had become two. There have been texts from her sister, hard, barking little questions fired into her phone like missiles. Heather hasn’t exactly ignored them, not really, not when each one has lit a fire of shame and guilt inside her, but she hasn’t exactly replied to them either. And now it’s Friday evening, almost two weeks later, and Faith is on the warpath.
‘Yes, got it,’ Heather whispers penitently. What else can she do?
There is a relieved sigh on the other end of the line.
‘Okay.’ Mamma-Bear Faith is standing down. Heather exhales, mirroring her sister.
There is so much Heather wants to say to her: that she truly does love Alice and Barney; that she knows her sister doesn’t believe that because Heather’s just so useless at acting normal around them. But that is only because she wants so desperately to see that love reflected back in their eyes that she second-guesses every move, every word. She wants to tell Faith that she’s gutted she’s made Alice cry and feel ‘the odd one out’ with the kids at school because she knows how awful that is. But Heather says none of this. It’s as if, when it comes to Faith, her mouth is perpetually glued shut.
‘Right. I’ll give you a bell on Sunday morning to let you know what time. Matthew has a meeting after church, so it’ll depend on whether he can take the kids too or not.’
‘Okay,’ Heather says meekly, but a chill is unfurling inside her. They say their goodbyes and she puts the phone down slowly. Then, before she can chicken out, she turns and walks down the hallway and stops in front of the innocent-looking closed white door. Blood rushes so loudly in her ears that it drowns out the sound of traffic on the main road outside.
She doesn’t move for the longest time, just stares at the door, and then, when it feels as if she has almost hypnotized herself into a catatonic state by staring at the blank white paint, she reaches out and her palm closes around the door handle.
This is how to do it, she tells herself. Like it’s not real. Like it’s a dream.
She has a vague memory of something that looked like photograph albums in the left corner of the room, in a box on top of a bookcase, next to piles of her mother’s old clothes, still bagged up in black sacks. She pulls up a mental image of that box and fixes it at the front of her brain.
She inhales deeply, resists the urge to hold her breath, and twists the creaky old brass knob. The door swings open.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Just move.
She’s fine at first, as she’s crossing the bare patch of carpet near the door, even as she treads carefully down the narrow path between the boxes and bags on that side, but there’s obviously been a landslide at the back of the room. One of the storage boxes containing some bric-a-brac that was sitting atop
